Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (18 page)

“Sure, I do remember him,” Marlene said, tapping her pencil on the order pad. “He was in here for dinner the other night. It was Saturday.”

“You’re sure about that?” My pulse jumped with excitement. Now we could prove that Kevin was in town the day before Chico was killed.

“I’m positive. I know it was a Saturday because he ordered the chicken and dumplings; that was the special that night. I remember he asked me how it was fixed. Obviously a Northerner,” she snorted, rolling her eyes. “I don’t think he’d ever heard of chicken and dumplings. Anything else?”

“No, that’s fantastic, you’ve really helped us.” I tucked the photo back in my tote bag and sighed. “Well, that’s a step in the right direction,” I said as she hustled back to the kitchen.

“How does this Kevin person fit into the picture?” Persia asked.

“We’re not sure, but Gina thinks Chico swindled him in a business deal. It had something to do with the dance studio. But maybe Kevin’s involved in this new real estate deal, too. He could have loaned Chico the money, and maybe Chico cut him out of the deal? Chico’s probably into Kevin for a lot of cash.”

Persia raised her eyebrows. “But how’s that a motive for murder? If Kevin killed Chico, he’d never see a dime of that money.” I thought of Noah always telling me to follow the money trail. It was one of his favorite expressions. We did, but the trail was getting cold.

“True,” Ali agreed, biting her lip. “It had to be something else. Maybe Chico was blackmailing Kevin.”

“Over what?”

“I have no idea,” Ali said. “We need more information. There are a lot of missing pieces, and I feel like we’re attacking an iceberg with a toothpick.”

“Persia,” I said, “do you have any idea what’s going to happen to the real estate deal, now that Chico’s dead? Is someone else going to step in and take his place?”

“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if they did; it’s a real good opportunity if someone has that kind of cash lying around.” She turned to Ali. “Do you happen to know Hildy Carter? One of the lawyers told me she had her eye on that block of buildings earlier this year. From what I heard, she was scrambling to get together the money and Chico beat her to it.”

“Hildy Carter, the decorator?” I remembered the woman who was talking about “finials” at the Walton dinner party. I had never gotten around to Googling the term.

“That’s the one,” Persia said, reaching for a biscuit. A tempting array of biscuits, muffins, and corn bread squares were nestled in a small wicker basket in the center of the table. I had been doing my best to resist temptation, but now that Persia had a biscuit in hand, I felt my own hand creeping toward a blueberry muffin.

“I remember she said times were tough in the decorating business. I had the feeling she was hard up for money.” I also recalled that when she mentioned Chico’s death, she had said something about karma.

Persia laughed. “Oh, don’t let that pauper act fool you. She inherited a ton of money from her daddy and she’s a sharp one, always looking for a good investment. You have to move fast on these deals, and I think Chico beat her out by a few hours. Or at least he would have, if someone hadn’t knocked him off. At least, that’s the word around the office. I’ll tell you one thing about Hildy—she doesn’t like to lose. She’s sweet as pie, until you cross her.”

I raised my eyebrows, not sure what to do with these new pieces of information. “Chico’s death could be a lot more complicated than anyone realized,” I said, putting my napkin on my lap. “It’s like trying to put a jigsaw puzzle together when you don’t have all the pieces.”

“That’s a darn good analogy and I feel the same way,” Persia said. She sat back, catching the eye of the plump waitress, who was headed for our table. “But for the moment, let’s put Chico out of our minds and enjoy our lunch. Marlene just came out of the kitchen with our order, and that soup smells heavenly.” After Marlene had served us, Persia reached for a sour cream muffin when she suddenly paused with her hand in midair. She had a Cheshire cat smile on her face, and Ali and I exchanged puzzled looks

“Is something wrong, Persia?” I asked.

“Oh no, nothing’s wrong, but I just remembered something,” she said, casting a thoughtful look at Ali. “I had the strangest dream last night. One of those out-of-the-blue, it-could-never-happen dreams. The kind where you wake up and think, ‘Wow! What was all that about?’”

“Really?” Ali leaned forward, eager to do an interpretation. “We all have those dreams from time to time, I’d love to hear about yours.”

“And I’d love to tell you about it,” Persia said, shaking her head. She gave a throaty chuckle, her eyes bright with merriment. “But I think I’ll save it for the Dream Club. It’s about one of the members, and it’s a doozy! If I talk about it right now, I’m going to collapse in a fit of giggles. That’s how outrageous it is.”

“You can’t even give us a hint?” Ali’s tone was plaintive.

“Just remember, still waters run deep,” Persia said mysteriously. “Very deep.”

21

“I have no idea what she was talking about, do you?” I said as we stepped into the bright Savannah sunshine. It was nearly two o’clock, and tourists were sitting in Lafayette Square eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and poring over travel guidebooks.

“Not a clue.” Ali laughed as she pulled her sunglasses out of her purse and hoisted her bulging tote bag a little higher on her shoulder. “Persia certainly was being secretive. My mind is still reeling from our visit to Lucinda. Who would have suspected she’d signed up for an online dating service? It was very sweet of her to share her recipe with us, though.”

“So you really
are
making plans to offer dessert at the shop? I was so happy when you asked Lucinda for that cinnamon roll recipe, but then I thought that maybe you wanted to flatter her.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t just being polite. Those rolls were awesome. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I think we should start off small, bring in a few tables and chairs, and offer desserts and coffee. It could lead to bigger things for us down the road. A whole new revenue stream and some new customers as well.”

“Absolutely,” I said, enthused. I didn’t want to push Ali too fast, but I could already picture making Oldies but Goodies a fun gathering place. We could hold regular events, maybe have some book signings, or even offer cooking lessons from local chefs. And if we could get a magazine like
Savannah Styles
to feature us in an article, it would be a huge draw. My mind was racing with possibilities, and I heard Ali give a low chuckle.

“Calm down, Taylor,” Ali said, sending me a knowing smile. “I can see the wheels churning in that fast-track mind of yours, and I want to take this slow.”

“Slow,” I said hesitantly. “Okay, I get it, Ali, I think you’re right. Slow can be good. One step at a time.” What was I saying? Slow isn’t my style. Full speed ahead is my style. As General Patton said, “Lead me, follow me, or get out of the way.”

“I mean it, Taylor.” Ali’s voice was firm, her eyes serious. “It’s a wonderful idea, but I want to do this my own way. Oldies but Goodies is a nice little candy shop, and I don’t want to change it too fast. I’ve seen what happens when people expand too quickly. The shop could lose its whole character as a vintage candy store, and we could end up with a hybrid that no one wants.”

“Got it,” I assured her. “We’ll do it your way,” I promised. Secretly, my thoughts were racing like a gerbil on an exercise wheel, but there was no need to rock the boat just now. We had a murder to solve.

*   *   *

“I hear Chico’s
wife is back in town. She’s going to be handling all the funeral arrangements. I suppose we should check the obits column in the
Savannah Tribune
for details.”

Sybil Powers sat back on the chintz-covered settee with a satisfied look on her face. “I’m assuming we all want to go, don’t we?”

If she’d hoped to deliver a bombshell, her wish had come true. There was a stunned silence, and then the Harper sisters tittered nervously.

“A wife?” Minerva said in loud whisper. “I had no idea he was married. He was such a”—she paused delicately—“man about town.”

“For heaven’s sake, Minerva,” Rose said impatiently. “No one says ‘man about town’ anymore. You make him sound like Cary Grant. He was a player, I believe that’s the term they use nowadays. A real skirt chaser.”

I was pretty sure no one said “skirt chaser” anymore, either, but I was enjoying the conversation too much to interrupt.

“Oh, did I say his
wife
? Silly me, I meant his
ex-
wife,” Persia purred. She grabbed a Madeleine and took a tiny nibble, glancing around the circle. The Dream Club had just started, and we had a full group this evening, including Sam Stiles and Gina Santiago.

Sam was preoccupied stirring lemon into her jasmine tea and didn’t look up at Persia’s pronouncement. I had the feeling she was determined to maintain a low profile whenever the talk turned to Chico’s death. As a police detective, she really didn’t have much of a choice; if she discussed the case, it would be unethical and unprofessional.

Ali froze, the tray of assorted marrons wobbling dangerously in midair until Sybil reached out and steadied it. Ali was a bundle of nerves tonight and seemed upset anytime Chico’s name was mentioned. I took the tray from her and placed it in the center of the table.

“Are you sure about this?” Dorien, jaw jutting forward, asked bluntly. “The guy was married?”

A little frown appeared on Persia’s lips, but she quickly dabbed her mouth with the edge of her napkin. “I’m positive,” Persia said flatly. It was clear she didn’t like being challenged.

“Oh, everyone knew he had a wife or two stashed away someplace,” Gina said. “I’m just surprised she showed up here in Savannah.”

Ali sank into a seat next to me. “Change of subject, everyone. Let’s get into dreams, okay?” I thought I heard a note of pleading in her voice.

Persia nodded. “I’d like to go first, if I may.” She glanced quickly around the room to make sure no one was going to object. “I had a very odd dream last night,” she said. She looked at me and winked. “I’ve just been bursting to tell someone.”

“Well, go ahead,” Dorien said irritably. “You’ve got the floor.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand that was meant to encompass the room. The little sneer on her lips made it clear she hadn’t intended it as a gracious gesture.

Persia clasped her hands together dramatically. “Lucinda, my dream was about . . . you.”

Lucinda flushed and put her hand to her throat. A worried look flitted across her face but she said gamely, “Really, Persia, I was in your dream? How very odd.” She forced a thin smile.

“What was I up to?”

“Let’s hope you weren’t strolling naked down the freezer aisle in Publix again,” Dorien said churlishly. “I haven’t been able to get that image out of my mind.” I glanced at her, perplexed. Dorien has never been known for her tact, but she was being particularly abrasive tonight.

“You were dancing, Lucinda,” Persia said, drawing the words out. “With Chico. And the two of you were drinking white wine out of lovely cut-glass goblets.” She gave a little sigh and lifted her eyes to the ceiling.

I exchanged a look with Ali, who shrugged and raised her eyebrows.
White wine and cut
-
glass goblets?
Persia certainly had an eye for detail. And a taste for the dramatic. It seemed overly descriptive to me, but she loves bold colors and designs, so maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch. I’d have to ask Ali if artistic people have more detailed dreams than ordinary folks.

“What!” Lucinda paled. “Is this some sort of joke, Persia? Because I don’t think it’s the least bit funny.” A deep flush worked its way up Lucinda’s collarbone and was settling under her chin.

“Of course it’s not a joke.” Persia looked flummoxed. “Why would I joke about a dream? This is the one place where all our dreams are taken seriously. I thought we were free to say anything we wanted. Honestly, Lucinda, I had no idea this would upset you.” She folded her hands in her lap and struck a pious pose. She looked up at Ali. “Would you like me to continue?”

“I think we should leave it up to Lucinda,” Ali said diplomatically. Ali hates any kind of confrontation, and I wondered how she’d work her way out of this one. Was Lucinda being overly sensitive, or was Persia out for blood?

Lucinda heaved a sigh. “Yes, of course, please continue, Persia,” she cut in. “Say whatever it is you have to say.” Ali and I exchanged a look. Lucinda’s reaction was baffling.

I couldn’t recall her ever being upset by someone recounting a dream before. Did she think Persia was mocking her? A more sinister thought flitted through my mind. Was she reacting so strongly because she had something to feel guilty about?

“You were alone in the dance studio with him,” Persia continued. “The lights were low and music was playing. He’d lit some candles. I remember they smelled like cranberries.”

Uh-oh, wine and music and candlelight. I could see where this was headed
.

“Really, Persia,” Lucinda rasped. She put her hand to her throat as if she were losing her voice. “Are you suggesting that we were indulging in some sort of romantic interlude?”

“Indulging in what?” Minerva said. Minerva is notoriously hard of hearing, and Lucinda’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What did Lucinda say? I missed it.” Minerva nudged Rose and scowled.

“She thinks Persia is accusing her of having a romantic interlude,” Rose said patiently, drawing the words out like taffy.

“Romantic interlude?” Minerva cackled. “In my time, they called it hanky-panky. Why can’t people just speak their mind these days?”

“Oh, my goodness, it wasn’t anything like that, dear,” Persia continued. “You were taking dance lessons from Chico. It was all on the up-and-up. You looked very graceful, and he was like a prince, spinning you around the floor. It was a Latin number, and I was impressed at how you followed the steps so well. Almost as if the two of you had danced together for years.”

I had never heard anyone refer to Chico as a “prince” before, but I kept my opinions to myself. I was curious how this would all play itself out.

“What happened next?” Gina prompted. Her voice had a hard edge to it. Either she knew something about Chico and Lucinda, or she was tired of Persia taking so long to tell the story.

“Nothing, that was the end of the dream,” Persia said with a little smile.

Ali frowned. “Why are you so sure Chico was giving her dance lessons? Maybe it was a”—she paused—“a social evening.”

Persia shook her head. “I don’t think so. I forgot one little detail. Lucinda wrote him a check when the dance was over,” she said triumphantly. “That’s how I know he was giving her dance lessons.”

“Interesting,” Gina said coldly. “She wrote him a check. Quite a telling detail.”

“But what does the dream mean?” Sybil said. “I don’t have a clue how to interpret it.”

“This is going to be a tough one,” Minerva said. “Maybe we should all think about it and come up with some interpretations for next week.”

“Good idea,” Rose seconded. “I don’t mean to change the subject, but I do have to say, these lemon bars are exquisite, Ali.”

Ali flushed with pleasure. “Thank you so much,” she said, looking relieved. I think she was happy to move on to a new subject. “Taylor and I have a little announcement to make. We’re going to add a dessert menu to the shop, and I’ll be trying out lots of different recipes on you. You’ll be my beta tasters, and we’ll keep the ones you like.”

“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Minerva said heartily. “You could bring in some bistro tables and scatter them around. The shop is easily big enough to accommodate them.”

“And umbrella tables for the sidewalk,” Rose said. “Everyone likes to sit outside in nice weather. And it’s almost always nice weather here,” she said, looking directly at me. She knew I lived in Chicago, the “Windy City.”

“You’re right,” Ali agreed. “We already have a couple of tables in the back, but we need to have some in front of the shop. It would draw people inside.”

We spent the next few minutes talking about the expansion planned for the shop, and Sybil treated us to one of her famous “dream-hopping” experiences. This time, she traveled back to sixteenth-century France and managed to insert herself in one of Marie Antoinette’s dreams. I thought this was a stretch, but everyone else seemed to accept Sybil’s theory that time and space are fluid and don’t pose any barriers to dream work.

“Marie Antoinette! How exciting,” Dorien said. “I hope she wasn’t in prison, dreaming about the guillotine.”

“No, she certainly wasn’t,” Sybil huffed. “She was a young girl, just arrived from Austria, and was dreaming about the man she was destined to marry, the Dauphin. She felt like a prisoner at the French Court of Louis XVI, and she was dreaming about running through a field of wildflowers. I think the flowers represented freedom; that would be my interpretation.”

“Flowers can also symbolize new beginnings, new life,” Sam Stiles offered. This was the first interpretation she had offered tonight. I noticed she hadn’t said a word when Persia had described her dream about Lucinda and Chico.